The Winters Of Our Youth
by Wayoming
Summary: Sherlock wakes early and sees the opportunity to remedy a missing part of his winter youth. John knows this is a bad plan, but hey who can argue with Sherlock? Weather inspired Christmassy fluff :
1. Chapter 1

**OH HEY!**

**I know I said I'd give writing a Mycroft POV for **_**One Friend **_**a go… and I AM! It's just not flowing guys…**

**SO due to the recent weather, and my own fears on being stranded in my uni-town :S This fic was born! I hope you like!**

**x**

Sherlock gazed listlessly at the ceiling. He hadn't moved for a good few hours now, and had been lying on the sofa, waiting. He knew there was nothing he could do until John awoke. He glanced lazily at the watch on his wrist. 6:30. John would wake up in the next half an hour, despite having turned his alarm off.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice how John was a creature of habit, and though he had regular days off from the surgery and Sherlock allowed him to stay in bed most mornings, John couldn't shake the habit of waking up early. Even as he thought this Sherlock heard the soft padding of John's footsteps, and a small grin broke over his face. He resisted shouting up to him, preferring to hear John padding along to the bathroom, his customary 8 minutes showering and padding back to his room.

He waited, almost impatiently for him to come downstairs, for him to _see. _There weren't many things that made Sherlock like this, and he wanted to confirm that what had happened outside _was _sometime out of the ordinary.

"Good morning John." Sherlock's deep voice interrupted a long yawn John had indulged in as he strolled into the front room.

"'orning 'erlock…" John gazed over to the tall man prostrate on the sofa, and the room around him. "Sherlock, why are you sat in the dark?"

Sherlock shot John a knowing smile and leapt to his feet, a manic glint in his eye as he rushed over to his colleague and steered him over to the largest of the curtained windows, before standing him still.

"John," he whispered, "is this normal?" before whipping the curtains back in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion, searching John's eyes for his reaction to the sight before him.

"_Snow!" _John breathed. He had never seen London covered in such a blanket. The roads weren't visible, and not a sound reached him from the usually bustling Baker Street. The snow was beautiful under the waning moonlight, the sun still not having quite risen in the increasingly bleak midwinter. And it was a _worrying_ amount. John couldn't even see the tops of the doorways of the shops opposite their flat.

"Mrs Hudson!" John cried, running towards the front door, ignoring the fact that Sherlock watched him dash away, a smirk on his face as he heard John stop halfway down the stairs that separated the flats, and walked back into the living room, looking sheepish.

"Mrs Hudson is in Kent. With her niece for Christmas."

"Yes John."

"And has been for two days."

"_Yes _John." The smirk stayed on Sherlock's face as John shuffled into the kitchen to make tea, muttering about _just trying to keep their landlady alive_. "John!" Sherlock called after him, and smiled winningly as the blond tousled head craned round the doorway in an endearingly frustrated fashion.

"Can we go outside?"

John's eyes widened and his mouth gaped like a fish as he tried to fathom the words the man in front of him had just said.

"You can see the snow can't you Sherlock?"

"Yes John. What's your point?" He watched John as a plethora of emotions crossed his open face. "Look," Sherlock said trying to placate him, trying to get his face to stop contorting so much "I see no reason why we can't venture out into the snow John."

"No?" John squeaked. "You don't think the fact that it's taller than you might be a slight problem? That it might be a drawback that we wont be able to open the door downstairs because the snow wont let it? That it might be safer to stay inside, until it melts?"  
"Safe? Boring." Sherlock said dismissively, before sweeping out of the room, into his bedroom to dress, leaving John to flop helplessly into a chair and watch the sunlight creeping into the room from the one opened curtain and await his flatmates return.

"Are you not coming John?"

Sherlock had swept back into the room, long coat wrapped around him and scarf wound around his neck, jolting John out of the light doze he had fallen into. John gave him a level look, honestly trying to understand how Sherlock could miss how dangerous going out in that snow could be.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. But if you want to risk going out there, I'll let you." And he wrenched himself out of his chair, and turned off into the kitchen "I'm sticking the kettle on."

Sherlock made a face, and left, letting the flat door close behind him, his imperious air leaving John with a small smile as he flicked the switch on the kettle and awaited the inevitable.

He was rewarded with a phone call on his mobile less than 15 minutes later.

"John. It's very cold. And the door's frozen shut behind me." John suppressed the smug smile,

"Alright Sherlock, I'll be right down."

The door was jammed tight in it's hinges, and John had to yank as hard as he could until the door swung wide, bringing with it a mountain of snow and a shivering, wet, Sherlock. John forced the door shut again and helped his shaking flatmate back upstairs.

"Alright, what do we do now?" Sherlock was wrapped in warm blankets, and had stopped shaking, long fingers wrapped tightly around the steaming mug of tea that John had made him just before rescuing him from an icy death. John however peered over the rim of his own mug, still trying to understand how someone so intelligent had made such a simple error.

"Sherlock? Have you ever seen snow before?" John remembered assuming that the Holmes family were based on some sort of wealth, and as such had thought that he would be used to acres of his family's land covered with swathes of snow annually. At the sight of Sherlock squirming however he had reconsidered this.

"Yes, of course I have John." He said sharply, scowling at his friend and sipping again at his tea, avoiding his gaze. John simply waited. If Sherlock was going to tell him, he would. And he didn't have long to wait.

"It snowed every year where I lived as a child. But I-" He stopped abruptly, shrugging off the blanket and pacing, having left his tea half drunk on the low table, spilling a little on the littered surface. He began again. "It snowed every year, and I was never let outside. I had to watch as children ran, and played and built things. And it always looked like fun. Like I was missing out on the most exciting thing in the world." He paused, keeping his eyes away from John's as he paced, reliving his childhood. "And I'd wake up in the morning, being told that I could go outside now…to find slush, and mud. And I'd return inside, longing for what I never had. And now-" He looked out of the windows longingly. "It was an experiment John. Nothing more." His sudden monotone cutting off any further questioning.

"Fair enough" John said carefully, not wanting to pry any further than he already had. Racking his brains for something they could do John turned back Sherlock staring out of the window, and scanned the bare flat. "Sherlock?"

The incoherent noise from the window alerted John that he had Sherlock's attention.

"It's December isn't it?"

"Yes John."

"Why don't we decorate for Christmas?"

Sherlock shot him a derisive look. "What?" The look continued. "_What Sherlock?" _

"John. I don't decorate for Christmas. I don't see the point."

"Oh."

Sherlock saw his friend's face fall, and a pang of guilt thrummed through him.

"Usually. I don't decorate _usually_. We could…I suppose…if you wanted to."

The grin that spread across John's face was worth giving up his tradition of holiday-non-involvement.

"I'll go and whip out my decorations!" John grinned, and bounded off to his room.

Two hours later, the two of them stood back and admired the haphazard attempt at festive decoration that surrounded them. The fake tree standing in the far corner sparkled with lopsided tinsel and fairy lights; baubles reflected the light in the dim flat, glittering; Sherlock's skull was adored with a tiny Father Christmas hat, and lights were strung around the walls, the soft white glow emanating from them eclipsed by the ever strengthening sunlight. A sense of pride swelled in their chests as they surveyed the flat.

"Well…I like it."

"Really Sherlock?"

"Yes John, I really do."

John smiled, and sat back his chair, looking out at the softly falling snow. Sherlock lounged on the sofa, arm draped casually over the edge, gazing at what his home had become. They were happy to sit there in companionable silence for a while, neither thinking to distract the other from their private thoughts. Until a niggling _something _irked at Sherlock.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you usually do at Christmas?"

John glanced over at consulting detective, and knew how difficult it must have been to ask.

"Well. When I was younger we would be sent to bed early Christmas eve, having been allowed to open one present beforehand. Harry would always find the largest present she could, and would nearly always strop when she wasn't allowed to play with it before bed. We go to bed, each year we'd promise to stay up as late as we could," John chuckled and Sherlock turned his head to look at him "to see if we could catch Father Christmas leaving us presents. We never managed it. I'd always wake to Harry shouting from downstairs to me, practically dragging our parents out of bed at some ungodly hour. All because of some flour scattered on the floor and the footprints in it. That and the presents he left us of course." John stopped, remembering the simpler times, before his family because so complicated that he barely saw what was left of it. "We'd rush through opening presents, would get dressed and wait for Nana to come over. And we'd have Christmas dinner. Well-" he stopped again "it hasn't been like that for a while now. Now I'm lucky if Harry wants to even _see _me around the holidays." He heaved a sigh and drained what was left of his very cold tea. "Another drink Sherlock?"

"Please."

It occurred to Sherlock that John hadn't said what he was doing for Christmas this year, had concentrated on what he _used _to do for Christmas. Another pang in his chest caused Sherlock to wonder how long John hadn't had a proper family Christmas for. He went home dutifully every year and sat through Christmas with Mycroft and Mummy and whoever she had decided to invite. John didn't even have a grudging, awkward dinner that he sat through for the sake of others. How many years had it been so?

Sherlock resolved to begin a new tradition, far from the sibling rivalry and awkward silences their previous Christmases. They would have Christmas here, the two of them…and probably Mrs. Hudson…and Sarah if John wanted her to come…oh and Lestrade…if he had to. With this new resolve Sherlock strode into the kitchen

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Merry Christmas."

**So there we go. This IS IS IS a one-shot…Unless I inexplicably change my mind…Which probably wont happen…**

**Let me know if you like it! I think they may have gotten a tiny dash OOC character near the end, but it's just a bit of fluff after all :D**

**Wayoming**

**x**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm never going to attempt to write a one-shot again… Every single time I change my mind :P**

**So, yes, I'm going to try and write Christmas day at Baker Street. I know it's a little late but whatever, Christmas spirit is Christmas spirit!**

**Forgive me if they get a tad OOC…But hey! Christmas!**

**Oh, and it's turned out a lot longer than I expected… :P **

Sherlock awoke to a yelp from the kitchen. He had fallen asleep with a book on his face, an undignified position to wake in, and one he wasn't used to. The pain in his neck as he turned look at his watch a testament to his own stupidity. He cast his mind back, trying to remember if there was any reason why he was meant to worry about the yelp from the kitchen. What day was it?

"_Sherlock!" _Came a frustrated shout from the kitchen, and Sherlock remembered with a cringe the conversation John and he had had the previous night before John had retired to bed.

"_And you promise you'll put the turkey in the oven before you head to bed?" _

_Sherlock made a non-commital noise from the sofa._

"_And you've told Mycroft that you're having Christmas day here, yes?" _

_Another grunt._

"_Sherlock?_ Sherlock?" _John had to wait a few moments before his flatmate would even look at him. _

"_Yes John?"_

"_You heard what I said right?"_

"_Of course."_

_Sherlock looked away from John, back to the book in his hands, completely engrossed. John hoped Sherlock remembered. The disaster that tomorrow promised to be had been _his___idea after all. With some trepidation John retired, anxiously leaving Sherlock to finish the organization on their Christmas dinner…_

Sherlock shuffled guiltily into the kitchen to find John holding a tray with a decidedly anemic turkey sitting on it, ready to be roasted. It should have been cooking slowly since late last night, ready for the guests they were expecting in two hours.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, clearly trying to keep the anger out of his voice "you didn't put the turkey in the oven…Did you."

"No, John. No I don't think I did." Sherlock hung his head, awaiting the verbal bashing that was sure to follow.

"Never mind, we'll just have to have dinner at tea time." Sherlock's head snapped up as he saw the grin on John's face. "Now, help me with these vegetables."

They chopped and diced enough vegetables to feed an army, their smart shirt sleeves creased around their upper arms, for the now-to-be evening meal. John and Sherlock put the vegetables in pans of water, potatoes in the oven along with the turkey, and John flicked on the kettle.

"So who's coming in the end?" Sherlock queried, finally drying his hands on a nearby tea towel.

"Well, whoever really," John replied, avoiding making eye contact with Sherlock, not knowing how Sherlock would react to who John had eventually invited "whoever turns up."

Sherlock had invited Mrs. Hudson, no doubt as some sort of recompense for the endless teas and meals she ended up making her _boys upstairs_, and had invited, much to John's surprise, Sarah. Not that John though Sherlock _disliked _Sarah, more that she was an unneeded distraction for him. John on the other hand had invited Greg Lestrade, who had gracefully declined, Molly from St. Barts, whose eyes had lit up in such a fashion when she heard about their Christmas that he felt unable _not _to extend the invitation, and Mycroft. Mycroft hadn't specified whether he would or wouldn't attend, but it wasn't until he had already invited him that John thought that perhaps Sherlock hadn't invited his brother for a reason. But, no matter, they had the ladies who were definitely coming to attend to.

Neither flat mate had asked the other whether they were purchasing gifts for one another. John had assumed that Sherlock's predisposition to ignore Christmas at all costs would include buying him a present. He could deal with that, that's just how Sherlock was sometimes. But he had bought Sherlock a gift. A small something. Because in the end Sherlock had given him a new lease of life, something to get up and out for, something worth _living _for. Surely that deserved a little gift at Christmas?

John took his newly made tea, and the cup he had made for Sherlock, into the front room, and came across said flat mate looking at the tree. He tipped his head back and forth it what John had come to recognise as a questioning manner.

"John?" Came the question, finally.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"There's something missing." He paused and tipped his head again, "Missing from our tree."

John placed their teas on the table with a soft sigh before joining Sherlock at his side. He looked at the tree they had decorated before the snow melted. It looked the same as it had then, just as heartwarmingly glittery and glowing. After a minute or two John broke the pregnant silence that had fallen between the two men observing the tree.

"Alright, I give up. What's gone?"

"Gone?" Sherlock gave John a strange look, as if trying to fathom what it was that he was trying to say. "Nothing's _gone _John. Something is _missing _however from our tree." Sherlock paced around the flat, leaving John to look helplessly at the tree.

He thought that it was fine. Fairy lights, check, baubles, check, bells, check, a star on top? Ah.

"Sherlock?" John turned on his heel to face Sherlock "A star."

He looked at John with derisive confusion, if any such expression could exist Sherlock could manage it. "A Christmas star, on top of the tree."

"Ah." Said Sherlock, slightly apologetic for again assuming that John as much of an idiot as most people. "But we don't have a star-" His eyes lit up as he glanced around the room and fell upon the skull, still adorned with its miniature Santa hat. He bounded over to where it lay, scooped it up, and placed it carefully atop the tree before John had the slightest idea what had happened.

He opened his mouth to object, but let it pass. Preferring to perhaps combat Sherlock's strange mannerisms on another, slightly less stressful day.

The door was rapped, and John instead decided to open it and greet a rosy cheeked, flushed looking Mrs. Hudson.

"John dear! Merry Christmas!" She squeezed John to her, barely giving him a chance to respond before being winded "Where's Sherlock, I have a gift for the pair of you!" It looked as if the slight woman had already had a glass or two of sherry that day. She bustled past John to embrace Sherlock in a similar fashion. He seemed to take it in a much more casual fashion than John had, making John envious of his swift recovery from being relatively suffocated.

"Mrs. Hudson! Please, do sit down, can I get you anything?"

"A glass of wine please Sherlock, that would be nice."

"Of course, one minute." Sherlock flashed a brilliant smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

"John, come here a minute." Mrs. Hudson beckoned John over and handed him a neatly wrapped gift "Something for the two of you." John smiled indulgently. He had heard every variation of people assuming Sherlock and he were a couple, and had ceased correcting people, just for a quiet life. Well, as quiet as it ever was around here.

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson. I'll stick it under the tree for later."

The door went again, and Molly, looking rather lovely in her red coat, greeted John shyly, handing him two wrapped parcels and kissing him on the cheek. John spluttered with embarrassment as he hadn't thought to get something for her, and he was sure neither had Sherlock.

"It's fine John." She smiled "It's just lovely to be invited over for Christmas day." The sad look in her eyes made John think about maybe inviting Molly places more often. Her pining over Sherlock must get lonely sometimes. John showed her in and introduced her to Mrs. Hudson, who seized on the fact that Molly was a woman and began talking her ear off about something or other. Sherlock swanned back into the room, holding two glasses of white wine passed one to Mrs. Hudson and one to a beaming Molly, who stood to greet him with a quiet "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas Molly." Sherlock beamed, and John truly marveled at how Sherlock was embracing the Christmas spirit as he kissed her on the cheek and helped remove her coat with assured movements. "Glad to see you."

John arched an eyebrow and went to check on dinner, and to check whether Sherlock had a stash of brandy that he was swigging from. His behaviour was most irregular, though not unwelcome. John could only hope he would be as gracious when, _if, _Sarah got here. Or if Mycroft decided to put in an appearance.

Sherlock was perched in his chair, listening to the women in his front room chatting, exchanging stories, becoming friends. His idea of having people over for Christmas dinner had gone well so far. Dinner was cooking, Sherlock having had as little to do with it as possible with the cooking of it having come off well, guests were happy, and John was happy. That was the most important thing today, that John have a Christmas that he would remember as a happy one. One without drunken siblings, or arguments, or anything that could ruin it. He wanted it for himself too.

He had made all the effort he could for the moment.

The door went again and Sherlock roused himself from his languid state to answer it.

"Sarah, Merry Christmas!" He greeted jovially, startling Sarah. "Come in, come in!" She smiled suspiciously. But greeted him similarly. She had seen Sherlock a few times since the Chinese kidnapping incident, but none of those could he be considered particularly _friendly_. However, people change. Sherlock swept her inside, thanking her sincerely for the gifts she had brought, and taking the bottle of wine from her joined John in the kitchen.

"John, Sarah's here." John noticed the edge in Sherlock's voice and turned to face him.

"Be nice."

"I'm always nice." Sherlock replied flatly, but smiled when John's eyebrows shot up. He glanced down at the floor. "I haven't got her a present either. Or Molly. Or Mrs. Hudson." John furrowed his brow, genuinely shocked that Sherlock was bothering himself with what appeared to be guilt at not having given gifts to their guests.

"Sherlock," John consoled, pouring him a glass of wine, "I'm sure it's fine. Try not to worry. Come on, let's join the ladies."

It was an hour, and a few more glasses of wine, later that they all sat around the kitchen table, beautifully set by Sherlock, and began eating what they all agreed to be a splendid Christmas dinner. Talk changed between the antics of Mrs. Hudson's niece and her brood, to some of the more odd patients at the clinic over Christmas and eventually to Christmas traditions.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson was saying "I never got to open any presents on Christmas Eve. We had to wait until Boxing day. My father was quite religious you see."

"We used to wait until the end of the meal to pull crackers," Molly said, a paper crown perched precariously on her head, "my mother had to leave the room because the smell of the smoke gave her a headache."

Sarah piped up that her father had a similar affliction, "We gave him a pair of nose clips, the ones you use for swimming, one year. He wore them all day, ended up with red marks on his nose until New Years.

John chipped in here and there with anecdotes about his past, leaving out the more recent, and more ruptured, Christmas memories. Sherlock simply smiled, and listened, taking in the words of the people around him. So _this _was what Christmas was meant to be about, sitting with those you cared about, not worrying about anything else but enjoying each others company. He glanced around the table at the little gathering, and thought he had done well.

The door went just as John was lighting a Christmas pudding, and Sherlock offered to answer it, and dragged himself to the door. John had insisted that he heap seconds onto his plate, "_It IS Christmas after all Sherlock!"_

Sherlock's sense of calm and wellbeing changed when he saw who was on the other side of the door. Mycroft.

"Evening Sherlock. Merry Christmas." Mycroft's perfunctory greeting didn't grate Sherlock as harshly as it usually would. _Damn food and alcohol slowing my reactions. _

"Mycroft." Sherlock stepped aside to allow his brother into the front room.

"We missed you at dinner. Mummy was most aggrieved at first, but when I explained the _situation_," Mycroft paused and turned to face Sherlock, "she forgave you completely. But she wants to see you before New Years."

Sherlock merely stared at his brother for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time.

"I was invited you know Sherlock." Mycroft said softly. "I wouldn't just turn up unannounced."

"Yes you would." Said Sherlock finally. He paused again, looking at Mycroft. _Not this year. _"Come sit with us. We're just about to have Christmas pudding." Sherlock smiled broadly.

It was worth being nice to Mycroft to see the shock on his brothers face. Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the kitchen, a mute Mycroft trailing behind him.

John smiled as he entered.

"Pudding Mycroft?"

Sherlock looked at the flat fondly. It had been a success, most definitely. He hadn't even felt the need to argue with Mycroft. Had been content to merely talk and laugh and be, well, _normal. _One by one the ladies had drifted off, Mrs. Hudson first, Mycroft escorting her to her door before leaving himself, a rare handshake between the Holmes brothers perhaps a portent to less turbulent times ahead. Then Molly, who had blushed a deep crimson when Sherlock had kissed her on her cheek again and walked her to her cab. And Sarah not long after, giving John a quick kiss on the lips before scurrying away into the cold night.

That had been 20 minutes ago, and John and he had been sat on the sofa watching some Christmassy program for ten minutes. Not that it bored Sherlock, it was quite interesting really, though what fish had to do with Christmas he couldn't fathom, but he stood up and switched the television off with a flourish.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Came John's protest, when suddenly a rather lumpy, badly wrapped package was thrust into his lap.

John looked at Sherlock. Excitement lit up his eyes.

"Well, open it John!" John was in shock. No matter how long he knew Sherlock for he never ceased to surprise him.

"I didn't know you'd gotten me a gift." He said softly.

"Well, that's what you do at Christmas isn't it?" Sherlock replied, his voice similar to explaining things to a small child "Give gifts?"

"Yes- yes it is." Swallowed John, looking down at the present. "Wait here." And he ran to retrieve Sherlock's gift from his room.

Sherlock smiled inwardly at the military precision with which John had tied the ribbon around his gift.

"Thank you John."

"It's the least I could do."

"Together?"

"Yes."

"1, 2, 3!"

The both ripped into the wrapping of their gifts, each more pleased to have received a gift than bothered by what was inside. John unfolded a cream warm feeling jumper, with a Christmas pattern of reindeer going around the middle in a navy band. Sherlock had a leather bound journal, with _Sherlock Holmes _embossed on the glossy front.

"I thought you could keep a record of your cases," explained John "rather than merely relying on your "hard-drive"" John smirked.

"It's wonderful John, thank-you."

"I like the jumper." Said John, glancing sideways at Sherlock, "Festive."

"Yes, I thought so." Sherlock smirked.

Both were perfect. John got up, he switched the television back on and slipped on his gift.

"Tea, Sherlock?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I'm gasping."

Sherlock thought back over the events of the day.

_Yes, _he thought, _I believe that went very well._

**That went on FAR longer than I thought, but w/e.**

**Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Hope you enjoyed my seasonal frolics :D**

**Wayoming**

**x**

**(PS: What else was Sherlock EVER going to get John, really? :P)**


End file.
